Assurgent
by Gabriela Nitaawigi
Summary: Post-Allegiant. Tobias has lived for nearly four years in a state of waking death, bravely facing the truth, bravely swallowing the emptiness. What other option does he have but to be brave? But now news has risen of discoveries, of top-secret experiments the Bureau of Genetic Welfare had conducted, and other things which have been buried for years. Is he brave enough to face them?
1. One

_**"assurgent" : moving upward : rising; especially : ascendant**_

* * *

**1**

_Tobias_

I sit in my apartment. It's sundown. For nearly four years I have been half of myself; a ghost in my own body; a stranger in my own home city. Acceptance has come, in little bouts, from a seed of traitorous relenting to a larger bloom of surrender. Life has been life, hard and dull, but not nearly empty. I still have them, the people who shaped me, who shed tears with me, who fought and loved with me.

I am tired. Weary. There is an ache in my bones, a sigh more than pain. It is a burden I carry with me everyday and seldom does it leave, although for merciful instances it does. Instances where my heart soars as it once used to, small moments where the laughter and love that surround me fill it, making it feel lighter than air. However relieving these rare occasions are, I hate them, because they make me forget, no matter how briefly, that She is gone.

Day after day it had been dull and numb, the memories faded, the sights murky, the sounds distant. For two years I had lived my life in a waking death, and had slowly started to push out, assisting Johanna Reyes in governing Chicago. I had worked and moved and toiled so that my mind would be too preoccupied to betray itself, but after the two years had passed, something changed within. I would wake up before dawn, covered in sweat, even more uneasy; as if things were not finished, not settled, not final. But they are. And they always will be now.

I debate tearing off the door to the small safe in the floor of my bedroom and downing the vial containing the serum I stole. And like a thousand times before, I veto this thought. Christina was right back then when she said that Beatrice would not have wanted it, would have hated it. And until today her words are imprinted, and yes, she is still right.

This is the hardest, being alone, having to constantly face my own mind. And yet I hate being in throngs of people, because I still stand alone, devoid of her touch, devoid of warmth. Because their loud, disrespectful chatter reminds me that her voice will forever be silenced, no matter how many times I hear it in my sleep.

I down my mug of coffee and contemplate it. It's an erudite blue, which shouldn't mean anything now, but it reminds me of the stain on her shoulder, and I glare at it and hurl it away, as far as I can, hearing it crash against the cold cement somewhere in the near distance.

"Four?" Christina's voice echoes from behind me. I turn around, half-expecting her to chasten me. But the Candor in her, though remaining, has softened over the years. Or maybe she has more important things to say.

She walks to me, breathing deeply, and I turn my head to look at her. The past four years have been just as hard on her, and yet time away from constant fighting and renewed mourning has softened her features and lessened the tension from her expression. Still today, she looks anxious, her dark eyes glittering with an emotion I can't fathom.

"Cara called." My heart jumps into my throat but I will it to calm down. The thought of even searching for all these years seems stupid and pointless, and yet Cara, who has been, so like the Erudite, seeking for answers to many questions. Many.

Christina puts her hand on my shoulder. "She wants us to go to her office. Now."

* * *

Cara stands as we enter, her face taut and anxious. My eyes flit to the adjoining chamber, where a gun fires into the air. Surprisingly, the bullet reverses direction and pings into the wall behind the gun and I catch a flicker of light in the seemingly empty air.

"New invention?" Christina inquires. For some reason I cannot find words to speak.

Cara nods. "It's a passageway protector. I made a polymer sensor which detects potentially dangerous projectile objects. You need force as well as mass to pass through it; a bullet will bounce off but a human running through it will only feel a slight resistance."

"What is someone decides to use a tank?" says Christina.

"This is for primary protection only. Ideal for attacks from long distance, but not so inconvenient that you need to enable and disable it if you wish to pass through, unlike previous blast-proof barriers."

I frown and Christina notices, her eyes conveying a small apology for deterring us from the main reason we were here.

Cara breathes deeply and turns to us, her blonde hair looking harsh against the bright lights. "Sit."

Christina settles into a metal chair facing Cara's desk, but I cross my arms and stand. I am at unease. Cara sits and opens her drawer, bringing out a plain white envelope. She offers it to me, but I give it to Christina, not wanting to be at the receiving end of whatever startling news we are about to find out.

Christina pulls out photographs, a map, a key. And a heavy journal, with coded stamps and imprints. And handwriting. Cryptic handwriting. The photographs are of a room, dimly lit with old-technology lights, and computer database systems, and filing cabinets. The map seems unfamiliar, a building I cannot recognize seeing in Chicago, until I realize it is one of the Bureau. The map reads "Bureau of Genetic Welfare", and B4.6 is scribbled in blue ink, as well as wobbly lines that form an X on the map. The key bears the same letter and number combination.

I glance up at Cara, who nods. She wants me to see for myself. I take the journal from Christina, opening it to the front page.

"CLONING EXPERIMENTS" is printed, in noncholant black ink, plain letters, of no remarkable feature. But they make my eyes swim with confusion and my heart race. I flip through the rest of the pages, which all describe, in words so passive and scientific, a process which the Bureau has experimented with, yet another curious test at playing with human life. I stop at the end of the book, because a name catches my eye.

"_This journal contains a summary of findings into the topic of Cloning by researchers of the Bureau of Genetic Welfare. These results and methods will be withheld from the public and from the lower working force of the Bureau..._" the statement drabbles on, but at the bottom is what has caught my eyes. Under the words "The Council of the Bureau of Genetic Welfare" is a signature. David's.

* * *

I look up at Cara. "When did you find this?"

Her eyes meet mine, stoic and yet soft at the same time. "A few weeks ago, David was in his office. He found a very well-hidden safe he obviously doesn't remember, and called me, asking what it was for. I sent someone with a device I made, a scanning ray built into -" she pauses, checking her Erudite tendency to go off on long soliloquies concerning technology, and continues. "Anyway, inside was a collection of documents that shed light on so many things. But the key and map were the most interesting. We went to Basement 4, which was hardly used at all, and found room 6. The pictures are of it, and the journal from it."

I swallow and ask, "Why didn't you tell us right away?"

Cara blinks. "I wanted to know what it all meant first."

She hesitates. "I didn't want you to hope for nothing."

At her words my stomach jumps into my throat and I take a seat next to Christina. "So what _does_ it mean?" I say, weakly but insistently. I want to know. But I also don't want to.

Cara frowns, and the expression on her face makes me even more impatient. She hangs her head for a few seconds, probably trying to figure out how to break the news in terms that don't scream a research scientist. "We didn't collect Tris right away, because no one wanted to go near the death serum. We had to wait until we were sure it had dissipated. Until Caleb found us and told us that she had held him at gunpoint so she could take his stead. A few minutes had already gone by at this point, and she was cold when we found her."

My hands are shaking the moment she says her name. I've called her Beatrice to myself and to everyone else since she left, and the stinging heartache her old nickname brings is as rabid as ever. I angrily say, "Why are you telling me this? It's nothing new." Christina lays a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently, and I feel my eyes rim with tears. I shake it away, angry at my own weakness.

Cara comes nearer and sits at the edge of her desk, hands clasped and shoulder struggling not to give in to a slouch. She extends her palm and I give her the journal, more like shove it towards her. She gives me a look of understanding and flips to a certain page, labelled "Cloning Apparatus" and points to a gun. "This was in the safe too. It was the last and final version of a Clone gun. It would take cells from the body and use these to generate clones. After they shot subjects with it they saw dizziness, numbness, and hallucinations before the subject would drift into a coma. The clones were always unsuccessful, because although they'd materialize, they never had any life. Life is something not just that easily created."

Cara reaches behind her and hands me a folder. "This is Tris's autopsy."

She pauses, and Christina, who has been so quiet since my outburst, takes the moment to ask, "Why do you have it?"

A nervous twitch graces Cara's lips, as if she's too scared to tell us what she's found. Finally she speaks. "I wanted to make sure of my memory. Because when we found her body, I don't remember seeing a blue stain on her arm." She inhales. "And neither does this autopsy report."

* * *

**_Hello everyone. Like many, I was heartbroken by the end of Allegiant. Despite telling myself again and again that Tris was, in fact, fiction, and not someone I truly knew, I could not get over it and therefore decided to take my sorrow into my own hands and start writing this. I am much open to constructive criticisms and reviews, but please do not flame me. If you dislike my story there is no reason to keep on reading, right? R&R my friends. :)_**


	2. Two

**2**

Be Brave. Be Brave. Be Brave. My heart thumps these words.

Be Brave. Be Brave.

I put my head in my hands.

The room spins. Reality spins.

Be Brave.

I cannot afford to be brave. Being brave would mean hoping. And hoping for something that was lost and will most likely never be found? It would mean a pain so searing that for sure I would not resist the calls of the vial of serum in my safe anymore. Not anymore.

Cara has made me and Christina go home, promising to call us the moment she finds out something. Anything. All I can do now is wait. And hope. But I don't want to. Bravery is something unreachable now. Especially that Beatrice is gone.

I run the tap and feel it gushing under my fingers, and it's cold, almost as cold as she was when I gripped her hand one last time and she never squeezed back. Suddenly I can't find the strength to turn on the heat, and stumble into the shower, the water pounding my back like hail, and suddenly all I can hear is her voice, telling me to be brave. I weep because she seldom haunts me in my waking hours, both a luxury and condemnation I spend; relieving because I don't sit up drenched in sweat yelling for her, and emptiness because she's not with me, not like she is when I reach the deepest chasms of sleep.

I look down and see the bird on my chest, right where hers used to be. It is infinity, the number of times I remember her again and again, the way her eyes gleamed and were so bright with life, the way her touch felt, and how her words resonated in my mind. Moving on with life and letting go was so hard when there is so much that anchors you back, so much that has formed and shaped you. How ironic that the people I once considered my true family were nearly all dead, and yet the ones who shared my blood were still alive. My eyes blink away the tears and the water gushing from above, pounding a rhythm against the factions inked into my back, and I break.

* * *

Hours later I lay in bed, my hands scarred and my knuckles bloody from beating the shower wall to death. However displeased I am with losing control it felt good, and it released the tension I'd been holding in, not just from the jolting meeting with Cara, but from the months that have passed, and the years, all those empty years.

Empty. Just like her eyes when I saw her for the last time. Like her urn which stands in the corner of a room. Like that net before she fell into it. Like my life, before she arrived. Because once she did, she filled me up, like a life-saving serum, one that couldn't have come from any other than Tris – Beatrice—herself. But now? I am nearly empty again.

I fall into sleep, like slipping into a warm bath, but sleep is much more than that now. It is a tumultuous one, that swirls around and around, and I am caught up in a whirlpool of my own dreams. It keeps tugging and I cannot help but succumb to its pull, and I know there's a drain, a drain somewhere, but I can never find it, and maybe I never should, because then I will be empty.

"Four" she whispers, and I stir in my sleep, wanting to escape the whirlpool, to jump from the rim, because I know she'll be there, eyes alight, and arms around me. But my bed is empty and I scream her name well into the night, hoping like a fool that if I cry enough, the birds on our collarbones will turn into a flock and bring her back to me, soaring like she would have on that zip line Uriah took her to, the very same one where I faced my fears like never before, in her name, in her sake. Tris made me brave. She gave me a reason to be.

* * *

I fall off the edge of the building, a silent scream wrenching itself and my breath away. I should not have done this. Bad idea. Very bad id—the net catches me and the impact startles me, although I know it would be there. Some things never change.

The Chasm is still here, the sound of roaring water filling my ears. I find the rock we sat on that day she finally told me she chose me, told me without words but with her touch and her lips. Here I stay, losing track of time, strangely soothed by the rush of the river, middleground between the agony of silence and the loneliness of a human din. Here I feel like I can forget, if I focus enough on the noise of splashing and surging. Here feels better than my empty bed or a crowded train, because while this place reeks of her memory, here I can get lost in myself.

The Dauntless compound is like an empty shell, a chamber that holds the thickness of what used to be. I haven't been back here for a long time, but I can't help but miss it. After all, this is where we found new lives, and where we lost them too. I blink and try to see it through her eyes, at first a shocking culture of body mutilation, and violent camaraderie, but then a comforting sea of noisy laughter and loving, loyal allies.

Footsteps break into my thoughts and I slightly frown at the disturbance. Looking up I see Amar, hair tied back as always, brown eyes kind and yet hard and stony. Working in Chicago's Police Force has done him good, giving him a purpose and opportunity to do a Dauntless job. He grins at me and points off towards a distant point in the Chasm. "That's where I died," he says. I nod and say, "It was a great tragedy for all of us. Except for Eric. I told him afterwards that I'd get him back for it." He sits next to me. I quietly say, "I was glad to have killed him."

Amar nods, frowning. He pulls his gun out of his holster and turns it over in his fingers. It shines. He probably polishes it every day. After all, this object is a reminder of his old life and how he used to live it. No matter how painful, still a reminder of the days when he was surrounded by the people he cared for. He hands it to me and nods. "I know you're angry every day. Sometimes I can't help but feel the same, although now's definitely better than driving people around to the Fringe and telling yourself to be content with the life you're assigned to."

It feels cold in my hand.

Cold.

* * *

"Tris was one of the bravest people I've ever met," Amar says, his voice heavy with pity. My mind instantly tries to block it out, block out her nickname. "She told me once that she didn't believe GDs were to blame for humanity's burdens. At the time I didn't believe her, but afterwards I realize she was right."

I cough and give him back his gun. "She was always right. Why are we talking about this?"

He puts his hand on my shoulder. I tense, but don't push it away. "Because I'm proud of you. For being surer of yourself that you've taken a position of leadership. We talked about this too, how if you'd just trusted yourself more…"

His voice trails away and I can't look at him. I move to stand up, and he lets his hand fall from my shoulder.

"It's not about the trust," I hear myself say. "I have a responsibility. If I can even remotely recognize what's right, it doesn't matter if I can't act on it, because what's important is I'm aware of it. Just like in the simulations. Besides, it's the only way to go on. Doing work and letting go."

I start to walk away. Amar's voice comes from behind, soft and sad. "Sometimes going on doesn't mean you need to let go. Sometimes, it means you just have to accept."

* * *

_**So this chapter focuses more on Tobias, and gives a little inside to how the past four years have been on him. Well, R&R please :)**_


	3. Three

**3**

I wake up early and get dressed. I look at my hair and realize it's grown too long again, so I cut it short. The sun has just begun to peek out at me when I reach the train platform, my old instincts telling me to jump for the carriages. But I don't, because now the train stops at each station, a reminder that everything can change, that a revolution can affect even a small thing like the application of brakes. I reach the Hub, still sleek in all its urban glory, and there it is, my other life, the one that distracts me every day yet makes me scorn the noise of human companionship.

Johanna Reyes is receiving a call as I walk in, and she beckons me to take a seat.

"Well of course it would be within my interests," she says, her voice calm and steady. "Perhaps I could bring along a few of my assistants." I raise my eyebrows, wondering where we are going. The call ends and Johanna turns to me, her scar in full view now, as if it is a symbol of her resilience. And it is. She twiddles a pen around her fingers, pondering me for a few moments, before speaking. "We have been invited to visit several cities," she explains, "and speak to the people there about GDs and the truth behind them. We need to present scientific evidence, and for that I need our researchers." I nod, thinking of Matthew, who has done so much for us despite the propaganda of GDs before.

"We need Christina, who can deal with people well, and Cara, because of her position at that lab," I say, the words rushing out of my mouth. The truth is I don't want to go alone into a foreign city without my friends, or what's left of them. We've been through so much together that experiencing something outside our city and the Bureau would feel like something was missing.

I'd been to the neighbouring cities before; Milwaukee, where Peter worked, and Minnesota and the other metropolitan hubs, but only just to visit, never going on a public political intention. They were strange places, unfamiliar places, dirty and sometimes depressing and definitely different from the life I knew in Chicago. The people there seemed like soldiers or sleepwalkers, living each day like it was something to just get over with. I suppose for many, it is.

* * *

I find Zeke dozing in the lobby, his badge and gun in their holsters, his arm rising up and down across his chest. I look at the clock and it's only ten in the morning, but here Zeke slumps, sleeping like the dead save for his noisy snore. I shake him awake, and his bloodshot eyes stare at me for a millisecond before his eyelids droop and he slumps over even more.

"Let him sleep," says George, walking over to us. "The baby kept him up all night and he'll die falling into the street if he dozes more on his shift. Can't have Shauna angry at me." He winks, and all I can think about for a second is that his eyes crinkle at the edges the way Tori's used to. I brush these thoughts away, because they're painful and dangerous and have no business being in my head, not after all this time.

I nod, then smile, thinking of the little human that Zeke and Shauna share their love with now, a gurgling bundle of spittle and smelly cloth. Within minutes of being born, she had her father's finger clamped in her toothless gums, a fierce little stare coming from her dark eyes. She reminded me of Lynn, a character I never knew that well, but with that same adamant expression in her eyes.

George speaks. "Johanna says you might be going on a little bit of an excursion. Have you considered your security?"

I reply, "Of course. I hope there won't be a need to use the weapons we'll be armed with, though. This trip _is _supposed to foster peace and good ties with the cities, after all." I sit down across from Zeke, who mutters the words _nappy, bib, _and _carrots_ in his sleep. I look at George Wu, and see so much of Tori in him that it hurts, the same way it is when Caleb crosses my line of sight.

"Amar and I want to come along to help with the protection. Not just that, but…" he hesitates, and I finish for him. "You're GP and it would help to convince the public eye if a GP speaks for us. Right?" He shrugs, mildly embarrassed.

"Something like that. But convincing them doesn't mean that I agree with these labels, that just because I'm Divergent I should have the benefits of having more of their sympathy. It's just the way these people think."

"Glad to know you're so familiar with it," I snap, although I know he means well, and I know there's nothing wrong with my genes.

George purses his lips, obviously frustrated, and I shake my head and try to talk some sense into myself. "I'm sorry. It's just been weirder than usual, these past few days."

He looks at me with pity, a look I hate receiving, and says, "I know." And I laugh. Because there's no way he does.

* * *

Caitlin smiles her toothless smile at me as Christina and I bend over her cradle. She has a black rattle which she swings around like a mace, laughing at the sound of the chaos inside, the beads all bashing against each other. Zeke and Shauna look exhausted, worn out, and completely ready to topple. Zeke has been working his policing job at day, and is kept up at night by Caitlin, who he claims is always hungry and loud about it. Shauna, in her wheelchair, has tangled hair and circles under her eyes and claims that if she doesn't get at least a day off, she's going to kick the bucket. "Or at least get even more insane," Zeke says, a tired attempt as his usual humor.

Their small apartment smells of food, the aroma wafting out from the kitchen, where Cara and Matthew emerge from, bearing platters of something that looks suspiciously premade and reheated. The Candor in Christina can't help but remark on it, and Cara and Matthew laugh, that small laugh possessed by quiet, studious people, and Christina clears the table so they can set down the hot food.

Caleb comes quietly behind them, bearing plates and silverware carefully stacked. He sets them down gently, and Christina comes to help him distribute them. They both reach for the plates, their hands touching, and I wonder if the look they share is purely my imagination. It's gone in a second, and I turn back to where Caitlin lies, fiercely happy as I rock her crib, enjoying the dip and sway of her little world.

* * *

Dinner is a lively affair, as lively as Zeke and Shauna can afford to be, both getting moderately drunk, moderate by the standards in Dauntless at least. Christina and I also partake, although Matthew timidly sips his small glass of booze, and Cara refrains altogether. Caleb surprises me, because he drinks more than anyone, and I wonder if he's going through something difficult. Probably a failed hypothesis.

Everyone is a little bit noisy, except for me. I feel like an intruder, although I know these people, know them so well. In the dim glow of the lamps in Zeke and Shauna's house, I view the evening like a spectator would, in bits and glimpses. The ring on Cara's finger with a small blue stone, which sparkles from time to time, just like Caleb's once-again empty glass. Christina's hair, which she's finally let grow out, cascading over one shoulder as she refills it. Zeke and Shauna, tired and worn but at least not empty, and Matthew, who fingers the string on his neck, smiling as he grips the back of Cara's chair.

But it's towards the end, when Christina helps me bring out the Dauntless cake with a single candle flaming on top, do I realized just how much older we've all gotten. We help Caitlin blow out the candle, and I can't help but feel sad when the flame dies.

* * *

**_R&R! Would appreciate this so much. By the way, my story is also found on wattpad, bearing the same title, of course. Cheers :)_**


	4. Four

**4**

It's a week after Caitlin had grabbed for the candle, breaking it to pieces, the crushed splinters of wax adorning her chubby little fingers. I sit at the foot of my bed, contemplating the dusty suitcase in front of me. It lies opened, lined with a simple black cloth. I kick it with my toe and fall back on the bed, thinking, thinking, but still my head is empty, just like the suitcase in front of me.

A month outside of Chicago. Outside of the fourth city, away from the noise and calm of home. I worry that it will fall into disarray without us, but shake away these arrogant thoughts. Zeke will be here, although I wonder if he'll be awake enough to manage things. And all the others under his guidance, younger members of the police force, strengthened and no doubt terrified into growing tougher by weeks of training under George.

And my mother is somewhere in this city, keeping an eye on things. I know that no matter what, no matter how brittle she may look on the outside, this woman has an iron backbone that will carry her through almost anything. I bitterly acknowledge that this is in part due to Marcus, the man who gave us a reason to fight back. When your freedom is taken away, you have more to live for, you have more to fight for.

A nervous knock from the other room startles me out of my thoughts, and as I get up to answer it, I slide a weapon into my hand, out of habit. And open it to see the last person I expected to come knocking on my door.

He shifts from one foot to another, his hands plunged into his pockets, his sandy hair falling over his eyes. Caleb Prior finally looks up at me, his green eyes exuding a silent request, and without a word I step aside to welcome him into the small apartment, putting away my gun.

* * *

We both sit uneasily on the chair in my living room. I don't offer him anything to eat, although I know I should. He looks nervous, on edge, like he always is around me. He can probably feel my anger, although so little of it is left I wonder why I bother holding on. Maybe it's because so much of his sister still hangs around, in my dreams and in the way Christina smiles sadly and in Caleb's face.

Finally he speaks. "I want to go with you on the trip outside of Chicago."

I wonder why, if it's another of his curious, selfish reasons. "Why are you asking me?"

He sighs and he looks as tired and yet tranquil as everyone else I know. I guess that's what happens if you survive what we did, if you lose the people we lost, if you see the things we saw. War pulls you inside out. And after it, if you choose to keep on living, the peace that comes is enough to soothe you, but never erase the scars.

"I know you still don't like me." I don't deny his statement. "I'm Cara's assistant. And I want to go with you because – because I'm sick of how I live here." He shrugs. "It's not bad, living every day the same way again and again. But something's missing."

"And you think a trip outside the safe haven of our city will complete you or something."

Caleb looks at me, and for once he doesn't look scared of me. "You don't understand. Every day I live with the consequences of my actions. After I turned 16, most of what I knew was a world that was filled with war, with the blood of my family on my hands in one way or another. Sometimes you crave escape."

"Then come," I hear myself say. He's not brave enough to face the monotony of his life now, and I wonder if he feels as empty as I do.

* * *

She locks her arm around me, her fingers mussing my short hair. My mother pulls back, staring at me with her dark eyes, and I stare back, at her hooked nose and her ears that slightly stick out and her mouth which is now drawn into a proud smile. Looking at her is like looking in a mirror. I can tell a part of her doesn't want me to go, that motherly part that is so protective of the son she regained after all those years of fighting back.

"It's only for a month," I say, and she nods. "I'll be here when you return."

I think of the blue glass sculpture, still intact after all this time, sitting in my house. I seriously hope she will.

Zeke stands with us on the platform, his hand clapping my back and his grin still as toothy as ever.

"You take care out there." He says, and I laugh because he knows, more often than not, that I take care of things.

"You better not fall asleep and tumble onto the hood of a fast-moving car," I say.

"Who says I haven't already?" He shoots a small glance behind me, where Shauna cradles Caitlin against her, the baby sound asleep amidst the noise of the clattering train station.

Christina bends down to coo at her, and receives a swat on the cheek from the ornery infant. Caleb stands near Cara and Matthew, clutching at his bag of belongings. Everyone seems a little tense, but everyone is at least smiling, and at least no one is shooting at each other. I know to some extent all of us are nervous, because this is the first time we'll be leaving Chicago for so long. Our previous trips had never taken a month away from home.

The train comes, puffing to a stop, and I drag my suitcase inside and stand by the window. There are seats now, a mix of jumbled colors that don't mean anything anymore, but I don't want to sit down just yet. The train starts and slowly moves, and I balance myself against the sway of the carriage. I crane my neck, looking at the people on the platform, growing smaller in the distance as the train speeds up. One of them raises a hand, and I know it's Zeke. Then the train curves around a bend and I can't see them anymore. For some reason, I feel like it's raining, although the sun is clearly shining outside. I finally sit down.

* * *

The train rumbles on through the night, awakening me at some point. For a few minutes, I don't move, just staring out into the dark where a few stars weakly line the sky. I hear everyone breathe and imagine for a second the way their heartbeats pound through them, a quiet rhythm that holds everything else together. I remember the way the Dauntless compound used to be, quiet and noisy and sometimes violent, but always with that heartbeat.

I finally turn away from the window and look at the seats across the aisle, where Cara sits, somewhat stiff even in sleep, with Matthew slumped against her. I know they've made quiet plans to get married, and I hope they can, maybe as soon as we return to the city. I smile, thinking of the little ones they may have. Will they be studious and quiet? Little geniuses who expound on everything they know given the chance?

For a sudden, searing moment I wonder about Beatrice and I, if we'd have chosen the same path Cara and Matthew have, a pledge to remain by each other's sides forever. My head hurts just thinking about it, but I can't stop. I imagine smaller versions of her, younger with the same light hair and the same serious eyes, and I wonder if she would have ever taught them to fight. Probably not unless it was necessary. I press my fingers on the glass of the window, watching the dark landscape whiz by, dark silhouettes of undistinguishable landmarks, and feel so afraid that it hurts. I fear thoughts of the future we once had, more than any gun pressed to my skull.

Just as I'm nearing the brink of deep sleep, I hear someone stand from the seat behind me, where Christina is staying. And just as I fall into the depths of slumber, I hear her voice far behind, low and smooth, calm and kind. For some reason, I dream about flour, sifting into a pile, and syrup the color of Christina's eyes.

* * *

_**Thanks so much to everyone who told me what they thought of my writing. You made me really quite happy. Love lots! R&R**_


	5. Five

**5**

Milwaukee is relatively quiet at dawn, when we step out onto the platform. The sky overhead is somewhat blue, but still shrouded in gray. Always gray. In Abnegation it meant forgetting yourself; in the skies it can mean forgetting the sun. A teenager walks down the street, wrapped in warm clothes. He casts me a glance then scurries off, the worn soles of his shoes slapping against the pavement. I had not realized it was cold, but I guess it is. My breath comes in puffs, like the warmth in me is escaping bit by bit. I know it won't happen, but I wonder what it would be like, if breath by breath the heat in me dissipates into the air, leaving me empty, leaving me cold. I suppose that's what dying is like.

Johanna leads the way out of the station, with me by her side. George and Amar follow closely, weapons at the ready, yet concealed carefully. We don't want to raise distrust. They have chosen four other guards, who hover near Matthew, Cara, Christina, and Caleb. Altogether I suppose we form an interesting group. I wonder how the typical city dweller would regard us, a hodgepodge of disbanded factions, some with scars, others with tattoos. I suppose the only thing we have in common is that at one point or another, we have all been selfless, kind, honest, smart, and brave. Brave? I glance over at Caleb, wondering why I still can't bring myself to forgive him completely.

Much has changed since I first laid eyes on him. He doesn't keep his hair as carefully and neatly swept now, and he doesn't don the blue clothes he used to. He looks older, more worn, sadder. But he looks happier, free of the confines of the old system, free to pursue his heart's desire. However, the Erudite in him and Cara still show, in their manners and the way they talk. I don't know why I keep wanting him to be more, to have been more, when he was always simply just this way. Caleb the Erudite, the selfish, the traitor. But also Caleb the smart, who loved his sister, who tried to do the right things in the end, who just didn't do them for the right reasons.

Is it really the thought that counts?

* * *

We are picked up by a bus, a private one, with blacked out windows that let us see out, but don't let the outside see in. Inside, it is filled with seats, soft and plush and white. I walk to the back, where Amar and George help their four subordinates load the luggage. They are young, some are younger than me, and look nervous, being outside of the fourth city. I wonder if they've ever thought about their chances of returning.

They notice me and smile, although perhaps all they know me as is the assistant to Johanna Reyes, with the strange nickname. Perhaps they know nothing else, know nothing of what I sacrificed and what I lost, for the ideals of my faction, for being Dauntless. I can't help but imagine them working the jobs that once belonged to my old faction, and imagine them striving for the greater good, filled with courage and responsibility.

Filled with the purpose of doing ordinary acts of bravery.

We all pile in, strangely silent, all taking in the sight of this foreign city, with its skyscrapers and smoke and bustle. The buildings here are old, but I can see the care with which they were designed. Near me, Cara's eyes eat it all up. She's probably envisioning a blueprint in her head.

The road is hilly and as it rises I see, in the distance, the remnants of a shoreline where the great lake would have been. Now that it's been drained, the great expanse looks like an empty reminder of the power and destruction humans have caused.

A lasting testament to the folly of my kind, "genetically pure" or not.

We arrive in one of the many tall buildings, and Matthew tells us this is the Center. It's made of red brick, and I wonder how it has withstood all this time. Near the top, the glass winks in the pale light, and the color reminds me of how her eyes always used to look just before I kissed her.

* * *

It hadn't occurred to me, until now, that this is where her mother was born.

Now is sunset, orange and clothed in smog. But still the light breaks through the gray, spilling through the windows like the yolk of an egg, bathing everyone in its glow. Christina sits, swirling a glass of something clear and fizzy, and to my surprise Caleb sits near her and they talk, hushed and quiet and soft.

George and Amar have gone off, probably securing whatever information they can come across. Johanna sits at a table, silently writing, making plans, words and thoughts and actions that we need to put into play. Her hair, touched with gray, burns golden with the rays of light, and her scar, beautiful and fierce, glows just as brightly.

Cara and Matthew are quiet, sitting side by side on a soft leather couch facing the window. The sun slowly sinks, and as I stand up, I see the small glimmer of the stone she wears around her finger, and their hands intertwined. He leans over to point to a building in the distance, and whispers something to her. Cara smiles, one of her rare genuine smiles, like the radiant sun, and Matthew puts his hand against her face, brushing away a loose strand of hair.

I turn away, because I don't want to intrude on their moment, even if just with my eyes.

* * *

There is a can on the pavement. I resist from kicking it. The noise of the city is strangely comforting, maybe because it is so foreign and unfamiliar that it's like the sound of the water in the Chasm, a blur of soundwaves in the air. Although we speak the same language, the city itself has such a dissimilar spirit that the way the people here move, talk, and walk seem obscenely different.

Christina and I make our way through horde of the busy, stone-faced commuters, meandering here and there. In a huge city like this, I doubt anyone would know to target us, but the cold metal of the gun against my body still reassures me. She looks up at me, and I smile down at her, slipping an arm around her back. I know she doesn't need me for protection, but sometimes you want to give the people you love things they don't even need.

We finally find the address written on the paper Christina holds. It is another tall building, where outside, men in black suits scurry with their fingers in their ear. Off to the corner, I see someone selling newspapers, with a mangy dog beside him. I see him pause to scratch it behind the ear, and both pairs of eyes close in ecstasy.

We appraise the structure in front of us, where people inside seem serious, too serious to notice the world around them. I see the man with the dog staring at us, and when our eyes lock, he speaks.

"Looking for someone?"

Christina and I walk up to him, slowly, carefully. This is a city of strangers. And friends. And perhaps, enemies too.

Christina nods, looking him in the eye. "Our friend wrote and told us he worked here."

"They don't let you in without a pass." Under the hair that dusts his lined cheeks and the raggedy clothes he wears, I see a man with sharp grey eyes that dart back and forth, from Christina's face to mine. He ventures to ask. "Where are you from?"

"We live in Chicago," I say, wondering why he'd bother to ask.

"Peter Hayes?" the man volunteers, and Christina and I share a look, wondering how this man knew Peter.

Before he takes our brief silence for confirmation, I ask him what his name is.

He breaks into a short cough, the dog whining by his side, nudging its head against his leg.

"Name's Nicholas Wright. But they all call me Old Nick. I been selling newspapers here for ten years. One day Peter comes, and he buys the morning post. And he gives me a sandwich." Old Nick reaches down to pet the dog. "Soon after he comes, always with something for me and for Mary Jane."

Suddenly he frowns. "He got moved though, to higher up. New York. But," here he pauses and leans in, as if the office workers drowned in their own busy world would notice and hear, "He got thrown in jail."

"What for?" exclaims Christina, although I wonder if the fact really comes as an appalling shock.

Old Nick shrugs, his gray eyes pools of indiscrimination. "Murder."

* * *

_**Ooh murder. This is getting curiouser and curiouser! R& R please. Every comment means a lot to me :3**_


	6. Six

**6**

The murmurs of the crowd in the room barely reach my ears. To me, they are an indiscriminate mass of strangers, milling around like insects under a rock, busy at seemingly nothing.

There are men and women in well-fit suits, with hairstyles that seem to defy everything we were taught about gravity, and faces that look probing and curious. There are others in shabbier coats, tagging behind them, some lugging cameras, other holding microphones attached to long sticks.

And everywhere, there are guards. Always there are guards. Not just our four, who stand near us, but members of the city's protection squads. Dressed in blue and tan, standing at attention - except I see one sneak a donut from the refreshments table and I frown to myself.

We stand in a tight little group near the front of the room, watching and waiting. Finally, at a nod from one of the event directors, Johanna stands up to the podium, and the crowd goes quiet. Everywhere, microphones are thrust in her direction.

"My name is Johanna Reyes. I come from Chicago." The room tenses, taut with the effect of her words. She continues. "Chicago was the first experiment to utilize a faction system to divide the citizens. It is now a factionless city. It is a free and open place, and many people have moved in and out of it. It holds a mix of all types of people. I'm sure you can safely say that our city is just like yours now."

The crowd bursts into more murmurs, more mutters. "But everyone knows that your city is full of GDs," says one of the women in a dark purple dress.

Johanna tilts her chin, strong and proud, and speaks. "My city is full of people. People whose genes vary, whose DNA strands are identical to no one else's in the world. People who have traits for certain things, others who do not. Now let me ask you, what about the people in _your _city? Do they not possess diversity in the way they look, think, and feel?" She smiles, and again the room erupts into noise. Flashbulbs go off, so many at once it seems like lightning has filled the room.

Cara and Matthew take over the podium together, and I give Johanna a hand as she comes down, squeezing it. She smiles at me, and I smile back, glad that she is here. Her scar is an ornament of mystery and strength on her face, and as she steps away, she brushes her hair away from her face.

* * *

On the train we watch the news, a replay of the live broadcasts earlier. It is filled with clips of our first press conference. Some news anchors seem incredulous, but others seem intrigued.

On the screen, we see Cara and Matthew, each expounding on things like DNA and evolution and genetic traits. Finally they pause, and present a question. Could the crowd guess which one of them was from Chicago, born in it? They couldn't.

_"So you see. We are both two humans who are adept in a similar field. The only difference is where we were born. Do you really think that should determine the difference of our rights?"_ Matthew's voice comes over the speakers, and on the screen I see Cara look over at him, smiling shyly.

I steal a glance at them now, seated near me, and the look on their faces is replicated, but this time they aren't at a public broadcast, they're on a train together, and although it's not completely private here, they are sitting as close together as possible, and I see Cara steal a kiss.

* * *

Caleb Prior stands and tells his story. When he comes to the part about his mother having come from Milwaukee, a hush falls across the room.

_"My mother was selfless. She was brave. She was smart, too. She was many things. I never really found out a lot about her, not until after her death anyway. She loved my father, she loved my sister, she loved me. My sister took after her. The women of our family were some of the strongest people I've known. Both of them died for us, died for me. So did my father._

_My father was an intelligent man. I guess that's where I got some of my tendencies from. I am not being arrogant, it is just the way our genes were laid out. But I did things he himself would never do. I know from years of working in labs that while a genetic trait may be passed down from parent to offspring, there are other behavioral tendencies that spring up out of nowhere. Our ancestry may determine part of who we are, but it's really within our hearts that the rest of ourselves can be found._

_I have committed a lot of mistakes, because at first I did not realize that our differences could be mended. I thought that once different, once separated in faction, there was no other way to mend a rift that behavior and society created. But it turns out that with love, anything can be surmounted, regardless of genes, faction, or anything else. It's one of the truths that the sacrifice of my family has taught me. The acts of love they gave as their lives showed me how much our differences cease to matter."_

I'm surprised by how deep Caleb has gone – deeper than the levels of physics and matter, deeper than the physical and tangible. I catch his eye from across the carriage, and I offer a smile. There may be hope yet. After all, he has changed. And so have I.

* * *

George and Amar come next, talking together about how they are both people who enjoy doing policework and protection.

_"For one thing," _says Amar, _"I can shoot from fifty meters and hope to hit something somewhere. There are other people I know who are much better, though. We all have different abilities and different interests, and our minds have different ways of working. I always like to adapt to situations. It means having a flexible mind when it comes to certain things."_

George steps in, _"For a long time, I wondered what was wrong with me. When I found out I was GP, I thought that meant everything. But I've met other GPs who are completely different, and also GDs who are so similar to me. So it made me wonder if there really was a significance. It turns out, we're all just people who think certain ways and are inclined to certain things."_

The message in their words hits hard. Here is the truth, coming from two individuals who are GP, who they cannot peg with having lowly judgement because of "damaged" genes.

_"I used to think that being brave was ordinary, because I came from a faction which used to emphasize that quality," _says Amar. _"But then I realize that being brave is hard, even for the Dauntless. Because when the definition of a word is warped, it's hard to become that. To some people, a real act of bravery would be suicide. Or doing and saying stupid, harmful things."_

George smiles. _"A real act of bravery is one with the intent to help others who have no power, no matter how small this deed is. We believe in ordinary acts of bravery, because we've seen them done by people like and unlike us. In other words, human beings, all alike and all different."_

* * *

"Here's me!" Christina giggles next to me, as we see her rise to the microphone, her face somber.

_"I'm Christina, and I have something to share with you."_ The crowd goes quiet, anticipating.

_"I'm afraid of moths." _

I lean over and say, "that's the bravest thing I've ever seen you do." She smacks my arm, just as the laughter breaks out, coming in waves from the speakers.

Back on the screen, the somber Christina has transformed into her usual lively self. She grabs a microphone and thrusts it towards a nearby reporter. _"If you wouldn't mind, well, perhaps you would – could you name one fear you have? Any fear at all. Paper bags, perhaps?" _her boisterous energy seems to invigorate everyone, and soon fears are flying into the air. _Darkness. Socks. Snakes. Trains. Heights! Dogs. Holes. Wasps. My mother-in-law!_

Everyone is laughing, including Christina herself. She struggles to catch her breath and finally says, _"We all have fears. And, we all have things we are confident about. For one thing, I'm confident in my ability to forgive. But it would be pretty hard, if the offending crime had been unleashing a cage of moths on me." _Again, laughter. She takes the opportunity to cast a glance at me, and the Tobias on the screen knows it's his time, to speak to these people, who are slowly starting to learn what we know, what we live by.

* * *

**_Oh my goodness. I'm so sorry it took me so long to update this! The storm wiped out our electricity and signal. Keep safe everyone :3_**


	7. Seven

**7**

In every city we visit it's almost always the same. We share our stories, we gain their empathy, we stir some outrage. That's the way change is, gradual and slow. Working at erasing the years of propaganda will be difficult, but after the same stale mumbles of lies, a fresh and striking new voice catches attention, like the birth of fire in a world of darkness.

The news of our movement precedes us, and with each new city there are more and more people who attend our public conferences, not even to report or record, but just to watch and absorb. Their eyes scrutinize, their mouths pout.

Always the story of my nickname, presented by Christina, draws amazement. _Four fears? _The people whisper. _Fear of moths? _Is almost as commonly uttered.

And always, the grainy war pictures we show of the pre-genetic manipulation age bring chaos to the room. But there is the truth, and it's not like it's totally new material. The photos were leaked onto servers a few years ago by a group of GD rebels who took over the nets. We are just reminding them of their existence.

* * *

Day in, day out. Pack, unpack. In every city there have been escorts. There have been curious people, staring like children at a foreign oddity. The smooth rumble of the train floor has become a sensation so natural and familiar, like breathing.

In every city there are scrapes. Incredulous civilians, rabid dogs, a lost identification tag. But nothing large, nothing we can't handle. No uprisings or bloody mind control, and we are all in one piece. Or at least, the pieces we've been left with are whole.

Christina is still a social magnet, with people warming to her at once. In nearly every place we visit she goes to talk to the people, and I have no doubt that she has gathered secrets and stories. Usually Caleb and one of the guards accompanies her, and I wonder what he's there for, if it's the company and warmth that he may have been searching for. Or if he just wants to find out everything there is to know.

Matthew takes Cara to parks and to libraries and to large buildings that show artifacts from the past. Sometimes they invite me, but more often than not I try to politely decline. I will leave them to their world of discovery together, and I will stay in the comfort of my solitude. Witnessing love can bring so much pain.

But I'm never really completely alone, because there are George and Amar and the four guards, and we try to find time and places to have a bit of fun off work. A month of just standing at attention is dreary. Sometimes we play Dare, a subtle reminder of the boisterous and juvenile Dauntless fun. And more than once there have been complaints of a group of young men leaving bullet holes in empty lots.

There's also Johanna, my mentor and friend. Each day we've spent together brings us closer. I know some of my ideals and concepts are so far from the ones she lives by, but that is the beauty of our world. If everything was one-sided, especially in governance, it would be a world of mindlessness. She and I have come to understand each other, to work together through our differences. As a result, there is even more respect. We don't always agree, but at least, we trust.

* * *

The politicians, for some reason, aren't very hostile towards us. It makes me wonder if after four years they have accepted the change, or if there have been orders to be hospitable. Either way, I can't know for sure. The best course of action is to remain wary, but not so cautious that the good will we've come to foster dissipates.

One exception was an encounter with a woman. I can't remember what city she was from. They have become a blur of gray buildings and stranger's faces. She was flanked by bodyguards, and the way she walked called attention to her air of superiority, each clack of her shoes echoing in the quiet hallway. She met Johanna and I in a private room, where the sunlight streamed in through the windows and the furnishings could hardly be called sparse. We were served sweet food, little round pastel colored discs she called "macaroons" and a pot of tea. The words that flowed between us are still clear in my mind, like the feel of a thread with knots my fingers have memorized.

"So," she says, picking up her teacup. "You have come to my city, and you have caused havoc."

She says these words, so matter-of-factly, that the accusation fails to register at once.

"We have come to your city, and many others, to cause change for the better." Johanna's voice is steady and quiet.

"Well, your change for the better has been causing havoc. The nets are exploding with news, and it's all about your movement. In some of the cities you've visited, there have been rallies!" her voice has lost its calm steel.

"In my city they are _planning _one! Do you have any idea how a rally would cause a traffic disaster!?"

"Do you have any idea how a closed mind could cause the delay of progress?" the words are out of my mouth before I know it. I go on. "This issue is not an unfamiliar one. The existence of the Fringe decades ago, and of GD rebels, show that this humanitarian crisis has been going on for much longer than our movement. The government has been on GPs' side for so long. We are the voice not just of so-called GDs. We are the voice of change. We are the voice of human equality."

She purses her lips, the knot between her eyebrows growing more pronounced.

"I don't know if you've met many of the people you call GD," I say, as gently as I can. "But they have told me their stories, and I think you should listen to their voices too."

Johanna looks at me, her eyes ablaze with pride. I sit up straighter and meet the green eyes of the lady in front of us. Her brown hair is not nearly as neat and prim as it was moments ago. She glares back.

"I don't believe we know your name," says Johanna carefully. The lady snorts, then looks startled, catching herself. It is a mannerism she doesn't like displaying.

"I am Amanda Fernando. I have the pleasure of knowing you, because your names have been all over the news, mister _Four._"

I shrug. "We don't desire to remain anonymous anyway. A man cannot truly speak to people if he wears a mask."

Her eyes remind me of the shards of glass tattooed on Nita, sharp and gleaming. "You'd be surprised what a faceless speaker can do."

I shake my head. "Spread propaganda?"

For some reason, she looks down. There is a thick and heavy silence. Her air of superiority has gone, and is replaced by an aura of melancholy.

"It isn't propaganda to you if you believe in it enough," she finally says. She looks away, out the window, into the endless sky.

"I had a child once. She grew up lonely, despite doing well in school. One day, she was gone. She left a note saying that she had fallen in love with the kind of person I so deeply condemned. There was nothing to do but keep going. She'd never given me a chance to take it back, to reconsider. All that time, she'd been holding her feelings in. She never tried to counter me or to change what I thought, to speak to me about the things that mattered so much to her. I always wonder why."

"Perhaps," I find myself saying, "she was afraid of you."

She stares at the rug. "She was such a sweet child. Losing her was worse than the downfall of any empire. After she left, I worked even harder to rise to power."

"Did you do it so you could find her?" Johanna asks. Amanda nods.

"Her name was Alice. She was everything."

We watch the sun sink through the windows.

* * *

"Four!" the harsh scream makes me sit up, drenched in sweat, pawing at the dark. It was her voice, no doubt, her voice as clear as daylight, in my ear and my stomach and my toes. She was everywhere, and she was haunting my sleep again.

Sometimes it's like this. Other times it's worse, because it's bad enough to break my heart over and over each night, but not so horrific that I wake up. I just keep chasing and chasing, and sleep is like a prison I know I can break free of, but don't want to. She's there.

I know I can't go back to sleep, so I stand and walk the length of the train, stumbling when it hits bumps. I find my way to the very last carriage and hesitate with my hand on the knob. I open the door, the wind whipping my face with cold. But it wakes me up, the clear stinging slap of it, and I lean my elbows on the railings, watching the dark earth move under me. One slip, and if I fell, I would be thrown to pieces. My body would grease the tracks and eventually, I would enrich the dry earth around it.

The stars are brighter tonight, winking like a multitude of dauntless flames in the sky. I remember the book on ancient beliefs that Cara showed me. How the first inhabitants of the land believed that the stars were people, that after earth, they went to live up there. How blissful, to look up in the darkness and see the people you love. I crane my neck, looking for her star. My eyes pass over it at first, but then I see it. A small star, alone in a corner, burning with intensity. It winks at me, before I realize that it is only distorted by the small pools of water in my eyes.

* * *

_**R&R please! Love you lots. If you like this story, please spread and share it. I'm SUPER stoked to be writing it. **_


	8. Eight

**8**

"They used to call it the Big Apple," Matthew tells us, looking out the window. There are huge towers everywhere. It is just after dusk, and the lights twinkle in this city like a million tiny stars, placed in rows and columns and lining the streets.

"Why?" Christina asks, her voice ringing from behind me.

"No one knows anymore."

The car we're riding in is long and slick and black, the windows so dark from the outside that they're like the surface of a pool of dirty water, mirroring reflections, showing nothing inside. The streets here aren't winding or confusing or messy, they seem to all run perpendicular to each other, a city with streets neatly in rows, a corner every few meters.

I see a girl with blue hair that stands on spikes, as if she was shocked by electricity. She's wearing nothing but black from head to toe, her lips dark and her eyes ringed too. She seems like a character straight out of the Dauntless compound, except that she's listening to music casually and doesn't walk with the taut wariness associated with a Dauntless.

It's night, but so many people are out, hordes streaming, pushing and laughing and I see couples with strange clothes and strange hair kissing out in the open. It's strange and yet still familiar, a city I've lived in before but never been to yet. There is grime and grit but I can see beauty all around, in the street lights and the old facades of large buildings that were surely glamorous in their day.

I suddenly see a huddled body in the shadows, curled up against the wall, wrapped in blankets. For a second, he raises his head, his dark eyes meeting mine. I know he can't see me through the windows, but it's like he's telling me something. I wish I knew what.

* * *

The building rises up into the lit night sky, its crown seeming to graze the sky. "The Empire State Building," says Matthew. "It's been a symbol of American power ever since it was completed." I don't disbelieve it. Even though the building is still, it seems like a living creature, alive and stirring within.

We step inside, through doors that let us in with a hiss. Inside it is clean and sunny from the windows, and cool from the stone. The lobby is abuzz with people dressed in black, scuttling back and forth. There is chatter and phones ringing and the clack of shoes hurrying across the tile.

Suddenly a man with dark, oiled back hair steps towards us. His eyes are blue and piercing, like ice in winter. "Are you the people from Chicago?" he says. Johanna lifts her chin, extending her hand. He smiles and shakes it.

"Johanna Reyes. Representative of the City of Chicago." She lays a hand on my shoulder. "And this is my assistant, Tobias Eaton."

The man looks at me. "Cal Foronda. Very pleased to meet you, Four. We have heard of your movement since your first stop in Milwaukee."

One by one we introduce ourselves, and then Cal says, " I've been instructed to show you around here, so you can see how some of the innerworkings of New York. You'll be staying here, in one of the upper floors."

Christina says, "I thought this entire building served as just offices."

Cal laughs. "It serves as a venue of operation to one of the most important figures in politics nowadays. It will accommodate anything that she needs it for," he tells us.

Johanna nods. "Well, we are grateful for your hospitality."

"We are grateful for your presence. We have anticipated the powerful impact your arrival might cause, and I wouldn't be alone in saying that I've looked forward to it." this startles me, because I would never have thought that in such a metropolitan where no doubt anti-GD propaganda has been spread, our appearance would be looked forward to. Christina catches my eye, wrinkling her brows slightly. I tilt my chin. _We'll talk later._

* * *

The elevator takes us up, up, up, my stomach flopping at the ascent. The interior of it is roomy enough, so riding in it only puts one of my fears into play.

The tour of the building was certainly impressive. It seems that every floor has a purpose to serve, no wasted facilities. There are state-of-the-art media equipment, and people sitting at computers monitoring maps. It's never really explained what they're doing or who the head of this whole establishment is, but it seems to be very important, because in every room we pass there are people scuttling, arranging papers, tapping on screens.

Cal explained that the channels are clearer are night, whatever that means. Caleb probably knows what he means the second he utters it.

The door dings open, and Cal shows us our rooms. Mine has a view of the hazy skyline, defined by a smattering of lights in the dark. I sit down on a chair, elbows on thighs. Although it's late, almost midnight, I don't feel sleepy. Tiredness is not a question, since I'm tired every day anyway. I stare out at the sea of lights and darkness, losing track of time. Finally I rise from my seat and walk over to the door, opening the knob.

I walk down the hallway. A small shriek hits my ears and I freeze, trying to sense the direction it comes from. Then Christina's voice giggles, coming from around the corner, and I hear her say it, sing-songy and like the crackle of a wet candle's wick – "Caleb…"

* * *

It is noon, and Cal comes to tell us that we have a meeting on the top floor. My stomach turns just at the thought of it.

"Will we be meeting her, this political figure you've been telling us about?" Cara inquires. Cal shakes his head.

"She's in another city. One of her subordinates heads the headquarters here in her absence."

"You never mentioned her name," I tell him.

He shrugs. "I'm not sure if she has one. She asks to be called Larkin though. Larkin Wright."

Christina's eyes whip to me, and I know she's dying to talk to me about all this. How could someone not have a name? Cal senses our silent exchange and speaks. "I'm sure her subordinate would be willing to answer your questions. It is not really my place to tell you these things."

He leads us towards the elevators once more.

* * *

The chair has its back turned to us, but I glimpse a head full of dark hair, and even as Cal greets him, before he utters his name and the man in the blue suit swivels to face us, I know it's him.

"Peter," breathes Christina. For an eternity there is a deafening silence in the room.

* * *

"They moved me here to New York. A sort of promotion, I suppose," he explains, his green eyes shifting to me as he speaks. "I took it willingly. To get away. I still don't exactly from what."

Christina sits beside me, still as a statue. But then she slumps.

"We heard in Milwaukee that you _murdered_ someone and got thrown in prison," she says lowly.

Peter's eyes adopt a hard expression. "There are some necessities in life," is all he says.

Cara sits near me, and even she, normally kempt and composed, looks undeniably shocked. "What happened?"

"I found that the man who called the shots around my company – and other companies he owned – was doing terrible things to some people. He called them genetic mutations – GDs. He was using them for testing. I have a suspicion that he may have been funding that establishment before – the Bureau of Genetic Welfare." Matthew, George and Amar sit up at this news.

Peter continues. "He was ordering for this one girl – he called her a _subject – _to be tested over and over. It went on for quite a while. She was very weak. But I kept talking to her and every day she got better and better, until one day she asked me for a favor. And I did it."

"You killed him." I say, and I can feel my face contorting into anger.

Peter almost looks guilty. "She was powerless. She'd been abducted and subjected to intense and frequent testing, so much that for a long time she couldn't coherently remember anything about herself, not even her name. We changed many things together. Of course, I was behind bars, but she worked for change, and now you see the fruit of it. This building may not seem like it, but it's a refuge. Nearly all our workers are GDs. But we don't let the public know that. Our establishment is one of the largest contributors to the city's economy. She got me out after a few months, and already then there were so many people behind her that all it took was just one more little push. And now here we are." He looks proudly at the small but clean and well-furnished space he has, and at the view from his desk.

"You've risen to power," Johanna observes. Peter nods slowly.

"She's risen to it. The world fears and respects her. And slowly, she's changing the country. People used to ask her why she sympathized with GDs despite her genetic purity. Now they're asking how they can help. She's in a very prominent position. The public's eyes and ears are directed at her. Wonder why the politicians in the cities you've visited haven't been hostile? That's been thanks to us."

"That's why Cal said you were expecting us eagerly," Christina says.

"We're all working for the same thing." Peter tells us, and I can't find myself to over how little malevolence is left in his face.

* * *

_**Oh the revelations! Read, review, fave, follow, share if you liked please! Thank you loves *kissy kissy***_


	9. Nine

**9**

The next days are spent going around the huge, bustling city, speaking to people here and there. It is apparent that here, the concept of equality is nothing new and shocking. Our speeches are met with agreement and familiarity, the eyes of the listeners filled with understanding, or at least, compassion.

However, not all receive us so kindly. There are skeptics and mistrustful listeners who stand apart from the crowds, hands folded over chests. But their existence does more to strengthen our will than to deter us.

Every day, I see small children, huddled against their mothers, skipping and laughing and playing. I see old, sad men, frequenting empty tables at empty restaurants. And I see young people like myself, their eyes afire.

Peter takes us around, to the huge garden in the middle of all the buildings, to the library which is now a storehouse of different out-of-date odds and ends, with the two stone lions snarling their welcome out front. We ride the rails to the end of the world, to the sea, to the smell of salt and grime, and we take a boat to the huge Statue of Liberty, a pale green symbol of freedom, spooky in its hugeness.

New York is certainly a startling place to be – the city streets so orderly, yet filled with life diverse that you can't count how many differences and similarities exist; and outside of the city, a mash of everything and anything humanity has come to know. Nature, life, chaos.

Christina's eyes are brighter with each visit out, as if the sharp cold air awakens her. Caleb seems calmer and happier, especially when he's around her. I feel like questioning their strange and ironic friendship, but do not. We live for the irony of things, after all.

* * *

"She's here," says Peter's secretary. My heart jumps into my throat, and I sit up. So does everyone else in the room, their eyes rooted to the doorway.

In she walks, red hair streaming behind her, gray eyes flashing. Larkin Wright has a persona that demands attention and respect. She sees us and smiles, extending a hand. At the first warm touch of her fingertips, I feel at ease. She is a friend.

We sit and talk all afternoon, about our plans, and mobilizing campaigns. She reminds me of a younger, less suppressed Johanna. The fight in her eyes is clear, the will in her words drip from every sentence. She lives for what she fights for, and we know it.

Night falls, and she stands, us standing with her. As we leave the room, she falls back, touching my arm. "Meet me for breakfast tomorrow. 8 am. At the top floor." I wonder why she doesn't invite anyone else, but I suppose there are some things she wants to be said in private. I just wonder why it's me she wants to divulge to.

* * *

The sunlight touches everything with its pale golden glow, and Larkin's hair looks like it's on fire, cascading over her back. She's wearing a gray shirt to match her dark trousers, and she hands me a plate of sandwiches. We stare at each other, each waiting for conversation.

"I never knew where I came from," she says finally. "And I suppose I'll never know. They wiped me."

I think of how hard that must be, knowing yourself but never really knowing where you came from. An entire lifetime of memories, washed away.

She stands and pads over to the windows in her bare feet. I watch her. She raises her bare arms to the warmth of the sun.

"I must look like an idiot. A politician, spread eagled to meet the sun. It's still a wonder to me. For so many years, I never saw nor felt it. It's one of the things you take for granted,"

"You don't look like an idiot," I say. "I've met many idiots, and none of them look like you do."

She shakes her head, laughing, and her hair parts to reveal a dark blot on her back.

"You have a tattoo," I say. She looks back to me, a small smile flitting across her face.

"Why, yes," she says, pulling at her hair so that it ceases to hide her skin.

I drop my plate at the sight of the solitary bird soaring across her shoulder blades, so reminiscent of the ones on my collarbone, and on Beatrice's.

Her eyes flit from my face to the plate on the floor. I sheepishly pick it up, and set it gently on the table. For some reason, I don't feel like eating anymore.

"I got it a year ago," she says. "To remind me of my sister. Because she always had my back. Always _has_ my back."

"I thought you didn't remember anything about where you came from," I say.

Her eyes meet mine, and she tells me words that ring so painfully familiar.

"Family is not just about the blood. She is like a sister to me. We went through so much, more than enough, to bring us together. The binds that hold us aren't the blood in our veins, but the love in us. Skylar will never share my DNA, but she shares me. She's the only family I have now. We took these names together… Partly because we had nothing to call each other but experiment numbers, and mostly because we wanted to be bound by the sanctity of words we uttered. Larkin and Skylar. "

I feel my hands trembling at her words. "Where is she now?" I ask.

Larkin's features darken considerably, and she looks angry enough to burn the world down.

"She's hiding. There are people out to get her. I try to see her as often as I can, but it's a risk."

"Who are these people? Why are they out to get her?" I ask.

Larkin opens a drawer, and hands me a folder brimming with excerpts from newspapers, cuts from media reports.

"I was only really viewed as a victim of the conspiracy. Peter was acquitted. But for some reason, all the blame was pinned on her. For orchestrating a murder, for making an entire company and other companies bankrupt. The man she killed had a criminal empire across the nation, and not many people were happy to have their ties severed and their jobs dropped. Skylar is wanted everywhere, and there's nothing I can really do, except help her hide."

"What if they find her?"

She shakes her head. "Then life goes on for everyone else. But all is lost to me."

* * *

I walk in to find Christina slumped over a chair, her cheeks flushed, tears dried on her skin. Her hair is messy and tangled, and her breathing is shallow and rough. Her eyes look up at me, and I see the endless pools of loss in them. She reaches out a hand to me, and speaks.

"Caleb and I fought."

This doesn't surprise me, as nearly everyone Caleb comes in contact with becomes angered at him at some point or another.

"He couldn't understand why I was acting so – so…" she growls and bangs her hand on the table.

"What's wrong?" I ask, drawing her into an embrace. She shakes her head.

"I can't tell you," she says. "I can't tell you." She mutters this line, over and over, until it becomes a whimper, a whisper, and a sigh. She falls asleep on my shoulder. I take her to her bed and lay her down. She instantly curls up, a little ball of fragile human flesh.

* * *

I walk into Caleb's room, and find him staring morosely into the darkness of the night.

"Do you love her?" I say, finding the words flung out of my mouth.

He turns to me, and his eyes speak the answer.

Yes.

* * *

"I never understood sacrifice," Caleb says, his fingers tapping a rhythm on his thigh.

He looks up at me. "I've never felt this way before."

He puts his hand over his chin, his brow furrowed.

"Is that what makes people sacrifice? This feeling?"

I lean back into my chair and shrug. "What feeling?"

Caleb stares intently at the floor.

"Seeing nothing but her in a room. Wanting nothing but her in a room. Wanting to run your fingers over her hair, again and again. Wanting to feel her, even if it's just a tiny sliver of skin that your elbow brushes when you stand next to her."

He's just as surprised as me to hear the words coming out of his mouth.

"Feeling that if you were to die the next day, the last thing you'd want to see is her, even if it's just a flash of her eyes before the world goes dark."

His brain is processing emotions that he's never felt before. Caleb looks terrified, out of place without his books and laboratory, and hardly any self defense left – now that he's opened himself to the pains of feeling for someone other than himself.

I stand up and walk to the door, opening it. "You'll starting to get it, then," I say, and close the door.

* * *

_**Oh my goodness! School just started and I at least found some time to write this. R & R! :)**_


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